On the edge of the bar sits a rather large cat... The cat is both large, and green. It's possibly a Maine Coon, but maybe a Martian Dobble. The green isn't just green, but it's glowing, yellow-green -- an irridescent, shining, gloriously scintillating vision, with waves of aqua rippling down it's body like bristles corruscating down a fuzzy-wuzzy catapillar's bulk as it races for the next tasty leaf.
The cat is sitting on a wallet crammed full to bursting with ripe bananas. There is a faint scent of warm bread. And warm nuts.
Floating above the cat is a neon sign... an arrow outline, bobbing and tilting, flashing periodically, pointing towards the cat. The arrow is orange. The arrow is curved, artistically, arching with 1930's pinache, and a dash of cinnimon. Inside the outline, in bright yellow, are words in a single, long, squiggle of gleaming glass. The words read
"look at the size of that cat !"
I went down like a sack of potatoes.
This was starting to get on my nerves, in between the throbbing in my temples. What was it with these distractions.
From the floor came a weak groan, followed by a strained "can I please have a very large gin martini and several ibuprofen?" There was a man lying on the floor. He had recently been dropped, from behind, like a sack of potatoes. More significantly, he had been dropped BY a sack of potatoes.
Don't they usually deliver resturaunt supplies at the kitchen entrance? Don't they usually bring 50# sacks of potatoes on a cart? Don't they usually stop asking questions after the second bodily injury? We may never know.
"Please, try the soup. It's potato." I didn't recognize the voice, but at this point, I didn't recognize anything but the brass foot-rail at the base of the bar. Shiney, shiney brass...
I could feel my eyes start to roll back into my head. Unfortunately, they didn't stop. They spun up, up, over, and back. And under, and up, up, and... my eyes started spinning much like the counters on a slot machine, if slot machines had only two wheels, and if they looked like eyes.
I could taste dirt. I could feel the grit of sand in my molars. I caught a whiff of copper. "Must be French Potato Soup" I thought to myself. I would ask for seconds.
I didn't bother waiting for the drink or the ibuprofen, I passed out. I hoped that I would feel better on the other side, but based on the drums sounding inside my head, I had my doubts.
